A Million Years Comes Awfully Fast
by aiiXael
Summary: Poland decides that Russia looks entirely un-cute in his current wardrobe, and decides to replace the stuffy outfits with something far more fabulous right before a world meeting. Not historical in the least.


"So tell me again; why did you need me to come to this hotel an hour before the meeting starts?" America asked, looking un-characteristically mellow. It being eight in the morning didn't help matters. He _hated_ morning meetings, and being up even earlier for one was not on his top-ten things to do while visiting Switzerland's home. At least the Pole next to him was cute, especially when his skirt that was riding up his legs, flashing skin. America forced his eyes back to the road before hit a tree or pedestrian or something. Switzerland would just love that.

"Well, like, you're being a major hero here? I mean, like, you're totes saving my ass…."

"What am I saving you from?" America paused for a stop light, turning to the other male. His brows furrowed in worry. "You said that was Russia's hotel, right? Did he do anything?" There was anger in that too, real anger, and it made Poland giggle as he twirled a strand of hair around his finger.

"Calm down, hero. Though your worry is, like, totally cute, B-T-Dubs. But, like, it's okay for now. I mean, like, he hasn't done anything yet," Poland replied, reaching forward and adjusting the heat.

"_Yet_?"

Poland grinned. "Well, when he shows up to the meeting, he's like, either going to totally love me or totally hate me."

That caused America to pause, giving Poland a puzzled look, before the light turned green and he stepped on the accelerator. "What did you do…?"

"Well you see…"

xxxx

Russia slipped out of the shower, skin flushed from the heat of the water. Ah, the warmth was so nice in the early morning! He ran fingers through his hair, enjoying the temperature of residual water that hadn't quite cooled yet, before drying it the best he could with a towel. It didn't take him long to get dry enough to leave the room, towel hanging low on his hips, the scarf draped over his shoulders, not quite wound around his neck yet, but not completely off him either. Contrary to popular believe it wasn't a part of him, and though he did wear it most of the time, he certainly didn't want to get it wet in the shower.

The tall blond opened a drawer to his dresser, knowing exactly what he wanted to wear today, before he realized something was very, very off. He peered around the room, noting that his pipe was still in the corner, vodka bottles littering the top of the small writing desk, and his bag next to his bed, exactly where he had left it.

Yes, he was definitely in the right room, but…. He glanced back down to the drawer he had opened, opening all the others to find them empty and bare. Only the top had any sort of fabric in it but….

It was definitely not his.

The drawer had been filled with pink.

xxxx

"You what!" America asked, choking on his coffee. He ended up with the scalding liquid dripping down his chin, staining his collar.

"Take a napkin- that's, like, totally gross," Poland replied, offering him one from the bag before going back to munching on his donut. "And, like, I exchanged the outfits he had planned for something totally cute. I gave him a few options too. Which is totally awesome of me, FYI, since it's, like, almost impossible to find these things in his size. He should thank me for it."

"But, it's Russia. As in… _Russia_; the commie bastard." Even saying that, America couldn't help the grin that split his face in two. After all, Russia in drag would be… would be something else. He wiped away the coffee spill best he could, before taking a few more gulps of the liquid, ignoring the burn in his throat. After all, coffee was coffee.

"That's why you're helping me. Like, I totes don't want to be partitioned again. You know how much that sucks? To the max! But I mean he can't, like, do anything if you're there. I mean, if he even knows it's me."

"He'll know it's you."

xxxx

"Poland," Russia snapped, slamming his fist down on the top of the dresser, the sound of cracking wood echoing off the hotel walls. It had to be Poland. Who else would try to dress him in clothes like that? Clothes of lace, and silk and… fishnet? Russia tried not to think about it, looking to the vodka instead.

Never could be too early for his drink. He grabbed a bottle and sat at the edge of his bed, downing a few gulps. The burn helped. It might be America—America might play a trick like this on him; France had tried in the past, had even seen him wearing women's clothing, as was required at Empress Elizabeth's masquerades but… No.

Poland… It had to be Poland.

Russia's eyes flickered to the clock on his bedside table and the glowing red numbers informed him that he only had a half hour before the meeting started to find something else—_anything else_—to change into.

His gripped tightened on the bottle and it shattered, spilling sparkling shards of glass and alcohol all over the floor.

Lithuania—he had to call Lithuania. He could get the boy to bring him something to wear; it wasn't as if it would be hard. Despite having left him almost two decades previously, Lithuania was still… well, Lithuania. He would help. He always did what the Russian asked of him.

Russia breathed a sigh of relief at the idea, picking up the hotel's phone.

xxxx

"Your phone is ringing… with the Lithuanian national anthem?" America arched a brow, and Poland pulled out a cell that didn't look anything like the kind he would use. Wasn't his pink…? With more charms than most stores had?

"Duh, it's like, not mine," Poland clicked the end button, and the phone went quiet. "It's Liet's."

"Why… do you have his phone? Yours not working or something?"

"Nah, mine's working totes fine. After all, it would be totally unfabulous if it didn't. But, I nabbed his phone—Liet's like totally whipped by that mad-man—literally!"

"So you took his phone…?" The puzzled look didn't leave America's face.

Poland shrugged. "All the Baltics'. I knew, like, Russia would try and call them. And like, they'd listen and do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted…"

"Would be something else to wear. Gotcha."

"Of course. So now they can't, y'know, help or anything. Totally better this way."

"Remind me never to piss you off," America replied with a grin.

"Like, I don't get pissed. It wouldn't be cute. Well, it would be cute, since, you know, it's me, but… like, you know what I'm saying." A few clicks and the other phones powered down, one at a time, and he tossed them back in his purse. "And I'm not doing this because I'm mad or anything."

"You're doing this because…?"

"It's a good thing! I'm being totally nice. Have you seen that man's hips?"

"No."

"Well," Poland giggled then, licking a bit of leftover frosting off his thumb as America parked the car. "You will today."

xxxx

No one was answering. Not a single Baltic nation had picked up the phone, and they always answered when he called. _Always_. But no, the large nation had been sent to voice mail sixteen times in a row, as he repeatedly called each one. Instead of trying a seventeenth time, Russia tossed the phone across the room and watched as it cracked against the wall, breaking into bits of plastic and wiring.

_"Дерьмо."_

He looked at the clock again, chewing his lower lip. Twenty minutes until the meeting started and it took that long to get there. For the first time in years, he was going to be late. He contemplated not leaving the hotel room; contemplated skipping the meeting all-together. It would be possible to do, but his boss… His boss would be pissed. He didn't want his boss to be pissed. The last boss who had been angry with him had been Stalin, and he never wanted to repeat that. A grimace transformed his face, and he went back to the dresser, as if that would change anything.

Nope; still full of frills, and pretty, and cute, and things he would never wear in a million years.

His cheeks went red, eyes flicking back to the clock one last time before he went through the clothes trying to find the most concealing of them all.

A million years was too short a time.

xxxx

"And you're sure he'll actually show?" America asked, taking a seat near the head of the conference table. Poland sat next to him, legs crossed, looking down at his nails. "I mean, he's usually one of the first to show up, and he's not here now…."

"He'll come. I mean, like, has he ever missed a meeting? He totally wants to impress his boss."

"True… but, we're five minutes late…. And if he hasn't shown up by now, what makes you th—"

"Quiet!" Germany shouted from the head of the table. The noise around the table dissolved into quiet murmurs, before stopping completely. "Is everyone here?"

Everyone's eyes shot to Canada, who slumped in his seat at the sudden attention. Well if he was here….

"Russia hasn't shown up, aru." Not that China was complaining. Russia always made him feel uncomfortable- even when they had been red together.

"He'll like, totes show up in a few. He was having a fashion crisis this morning and, like, he'll be a little late and stuff because of it," Poland announced from his seat next to America.

"A fashion crisis?" Well, not everyone could be as well dressed as him, France reasoned. It was about time Russia changed from the dull tans of his uniform, too. Though he couldn't help but be disappointed that he wasn't consulted.

"Ve. Does this mean we can have pasta now, Germany?"

"Later, Italy. After the meeting."

"Don't talk to him, Feli!" the angrier of the two Italian brothers snapped.

"Ve, but I like Germany. He's a friend. Even if his food tastes awful."

"Get your hand off my arse, you bloody Frog!"

"But mon Angleterre, it's such a nice ass."

"Kesesesese! Maybe that psychotic chick Belarus finally got him. She's not here either."

"Now that's not very nice; Bela is a nice girl. Just… a little passionate sometimes."

"Passionately breaking your bones, right? Kesesese."

"Barely five minutes with you, and I'm already getting a headache."

"You just can't handle my Awesome, Roddy."

"Do not call me that."

"I hereby claim aniki's breasts as mine!"

"Uwah! Stop touching me like that, aru! And put the camera away, Japan!"

"You better send me those pics."

"Of course, Hungary-Chan."

It seemed like the meeting had already gotten off to a typical start when the door slammed open. "I… I am here," Russia announced, standing at the doorway.

The room went instantly silent. Even Germany was impressed at the quiet Russia had managed to achieve. The Russian was flushed, breathing heavy, having obviously run at least part of the way to the conference hall. But that wasn't what caused people to stare.

Other than the fact he still wore his scarf and had the thick metal pipe slung over one shoulder, there was nothing left of his typical outfit. The bulky clothes had been completely replaced. His shirt was form fitting, corseted along the sides and back with ribbons tied into half done bows, bearing hints of pale skin from underneath. The skirt matched the shirt, cheerleader-esque, with pink and white flaring out at the hip. It fell just above mid-thigh, hiding the lacy top of the see-through stockings. Only a half dozen inches of the stockings were showing, disappearing at the knees into high-heeled boots that hugged his calves in black leather.

"_Mon coeur_…. You look… _fabuleux_." France breathed, breaking the stunned silence, and whispers and giggles exploded in the room. There were a few flashes from various points around the table, and though it was mainly Japan and Hungary doing the photography several others had taken out their cell-phones for the occasion.

Prussia laughed, obnoxiously loud. "You look like an overgrown cheerleader! KESESESESE!"

"Big brother…? What's going on?" a confused Lichtenstein asked as Switzerland covered her eyes, blocking out the sight of the Russian. She didn't need to be getting any ideas.

"Nothing." But he didn't take his hand away.

"Ve, Russia, you look so pretty!" Italy smiled, staring at the larger man. "Are you here to cheer us on?"

Any other comments that could be made were nipped in the bud as Russia shot the room a scathing look, and almost every nation flinched back, shutting their mouths. Even Prussia hunched down in his seat, though he'd never admit that his awesome was intimidated.

Cheeks flushing a darker shade of red, Russia moved to his usual chair, and sat down, folding his hands in front of him. "We can be starting the meeting now, да?"

"You were right about his hips," America mumbled under his breath to the man next to him.

Poland just grinned, despite the violet-glare that had settled on him, "I know, right?"

xxxx

_AN:  
_

_Дерьмо/Der'mo= Shit_

_да/Da=Yes  
_


End file.
